by Michele Hauf
There wasn’t anything taboo about the kill; others of his kind did it frequently, and, he had come to learn, without regret. It was an innate need pushed to the extreme. But Michael’s aversion to the act had become his greatest bane. He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t want to become a killer. He didn’t need to kill. But the addiction was merciless.
“Have I really done it?”
So easy to make the kill. You can do it, Michael. Such unholy bliss can be yours. Just…take it.
He’d vowed to never kill. He was better than that.
He tried to be better.
Had the monster won this time?
“Please, don’t be dead.”
Kneeling, his hand resting upon his knee, Michael searched the woman’s eyes even as the last traces of her blood slithered down the back of his throat. Was there life in there?
Seeking escape from her silent accusation, he looked up to the midnight sky. Easier to see the stars out here at the edge of the suburbs, than in the city, but still so little light up there.
Cars drove by in the distance, the tires spitting up water in their wake. The trance beat from the Decadance club echoed out to where he knelt, tucked deep in an alley where there were no windows. Ten paces away a smelly garbage can curdled the air. The lake lay but two blocks to the east and the keen of a gull taunted him from overhead.
He traced a finger down her arm and over the tangle of silver, gold and rubber bracelets on her wrist. Seven in all. One pink silicone band stood out.
Mortal diseases couldn’t touch him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be touched by a human’s destruction.
She was most valiant in her fight to the end.
The doctor’s words, spoken so long ago, still haunted Michael. His mother had bravely battled breast cancer for years. Modern medicine had come so far since then.
But no regrets. He tapped the thin silver band he wore on his left wrist. His mother’s. Truly, she had lived as valiantly as she had died.
And what would she think of the monster he had become?
You shouldn’t be here. You’re stronger than this.
Exactly.
The scent of blood suddenly sickened Michael. He felt his gorge heat the back of his throat. Garbage stench entered his pores. He couldn’t scrub away the crime.
Breathing deeply, Michael stared at the creep of crimson purling from the woman’s neck. The vein pulsed. Still alive. He’d not taken much. Only what was necessary.
Was his monster’s necessity a crime?
No. He’d not killed. Murder wasn’t in his arsenal. He was still Michael Lynsay from North Lake, Minnesota, boy-wonder-singer, and a mean right arm with the snowballs. He’d taken first place in the 4-H horticultural competition his senior year. That same year he’d almost been crowned homecoming king until the queen had found out he’d slept with her best friend. He loved his mother—God rest her soul—and he used to go to church every Sunday. So very, very long ago.
Michael Lynsay still lived—somewhere—within this vampire.
Reaching to stroke the blond hair, he stopped. Leave no trace.
Drawing his tongue across his fingertips, he wetted them and then smeared his saliva over the double puncture wounds. And then he leaped up and took off in a stride, turning sharply down another alleyway.
He didn’t get far. An arrogant shadow stood in the middle of the alley, arms akimbo and head cocked at an accusatory angle. The spare moonlight avoided her.
It was a woman, short and slender, dressed in dark clothing and not at all unattractive. He wasn’t far from the club. If he could get by with an autograph then he could be on his way. But as he neared her, he recognized the pale, grinning face beneath the sweep of black hair.
“You lost?” she asked on a sharp hiss.
Michael backed away at sight of the huge silver cross suspended around her neck. The thing had to weigh a pound and it captured the streetlight in so many wicked sparkles.
“You look familiar,” he said, trying to act nonchalant and not cringe at the cross. “And I should be asking you the same. The club is that way.”
“Don’t dance. And neither do you, unless it’s a danse macabre, eh?”
She had seen. She knew.
“What are you talking about, lady?” He smoothed a hand over his chest, lifting his shoulders. Not a man to be messed with. Nor a creature she wanted to piss off. “If you were spying on me and the chick making out, sorry, I’m all tapped out tonight.”
“Making out? Is that what you call it? I wouldn’t touch you if I was wearing a haz-mat suit.” She paced around him, keeping them at a good eight feet apart.
It was the woman he’d seen in the graveyard. But this was no depressed, pale goth chick seeking the strange. This woman looked wired, ready and dangerous.
“How long you in town for, big boy?”
Squaring his shoulders and hooking his thumbs in his belt loops, Michael answered, “So now you’re interested?”
She touched the cross. Michael glanced above the rooftops, making it look a casual stray from her gaze.
“We will meet again, vampire,” she said. “I promise you that. Until then, keep your head down and your teeth up.”
Michael took two steps toward her—the flash of the cross burned his sight. Clenching his jaw tightly, he strained to move closer while he was forced to look away from the sacred.
The woman moved swiftly. She made the corner and disappeared.
Vampire. She did know.
Michael could not allow her to leave with the knowledge of what he was. He had to persuade her into thrall, make her forget.
Racing to the end of the alley, he barely avoided becoming roadkill. A chopper rumbled past him, the woman riding it not even glancing at him. On her back she wore two guns, holstered in crossed leather. Not the usual sight one expects to see in small town North Lake.
“Just my luck.” Michael kicked the brick wall. “A slayer.”
So why hadn’t she done the deed?
For some reason, he must be worth more to her alive than as ash. But he wasn’t willing to find out why. The longer a distance he put himself from an armed slayer, the better.
“Time to start that exile,” he muttered, and strode the opposite way.
Chapter 3
J ane Rénan pulled her vintage red Mini Cooper up the drive before the Olson estate. Behind her by about twenty minutes traveled the delivery truck that transported her glass smith supplies.
She’d made a gentleman’s agreement with the owner last winter during a stopover in Los Angeles, but hadn’t been able to contact him last week to tell him she was now available to do the glasswork in his home. At the time, he’d said if the opportunity arose, she should begin the project. He’d even handed her a house key, proving his trust, and willingness to go ahead with the project.
It was imperative she be in town at this time, for the ritual must be completed during the full moon, and the one person who could provide her with a source for that ritual—Ravin Crosse—currently lived in Minneapolis. So Jane had shuffled her schedule to make things work.
A musician owned this house. Jane knew musicians. They were laid back, egotistic eccentrics, brash, outgoing savants, or quietly manic, desperate souls.
But most reassuring? They were even weirder than her own family. And even better? The famous ones had the cash to pay her well. And that cash afforded her the rambling, bohemian lifestyle she required to exist.
The pebbled drive crunched under her bare feet as she stepped out of the Mini.
Overgrown yew hedges in need of taming hugged the front of the two-story brick house. A honeysuckle vine climbed over the hedge tops, though it wasn’t yet in bloom. A burst of brilliant gold forsythia hung over the front step, welcoming with a scratchy entrance.
Jane drew in a deep breath and centered herself, closing her eyes to focus.
The air was lighter here than in the city, the earth more verdant and alive. But to delve deeper, t
o draw in the very being of the atmosphere, she decided that this site lacked innate warmth. Nothing to make it feel like a home. It was private. And there was no magic here.
Perfect.
Walking the facade of the estate, the morning breeze rippled the silk sari skirt Jane wore. Stitched with ornamental gold threading, it caught the afternoon sunlight in glints. A loose silk chemise skimmed softly across her breasts, and she pushed long faded strands of hair from her eyes as she scanned the upper floor.
“Should keep me busy,” she remarked on the eight-foot high round-top windows at the front of the upper floor.
If those were the windows. Her notes stated the windows Mr. Olson had wanted done overlooked a garden.
Lifting her skirts knee high, she waded through the long, verdant grass—more a meadow than a yard—and around back. Drawn to a quick pace by the tempting scent of lilacs, Jane let out a gasp as she arrived in the backyard. Forgetting the windows, she glided toward the wild overgrown garden, her arms spread out to embrace the utter abandoned beauty.
Deep violet lilacs perfumed the air. A curious damselfly darted near her head. Leaves slithered against one another in a sinuous glide, and flower heads tilted toward Jane’s feet. A sumac vine tendriled about her bare heel. She shook it off.
To avoid becoming entangled by overzealous flora she kept moving.
Plucking a frothy lilac panicle and twisting it under her nose, Jane could easily ignore the subtle movement all about her.
It is just you, Jane, her mother had once said. There is magic within you. Don’t let it scare you.
She had never let it scare her. How could one be afraid of something they could not touch?
Glancing up to the windows, Jane winced as the noon sun reflected brightly at her. Half circle windows topped each slender eight-foot by three-foot picture window.
“Definitely the ones,” she said. “I love the shape of them.”
And she loved the circumstances.
This project provided the perfect working conditions. Peace and quiet, and freedom to create the designs she felt would complement the estate. And no owner to hang over her shoulder, wondering out loud how quickly it would be done.
But most important, privacy to prepare for the life-altering ritual that she must complete on the eve of the full moon.
Two hours later the truck driver had helped Jane unload sheets of colored glass and her supplies and tote them up to the second floor workroom.
Jane had opened up half the windows to let in some fresh air and expunge the staleness. She guessed this place must have been sitting closed up for well over a year.
Standing in bare feet before the windows and nursing a goblet of celebratory kir, she made a decision on the focus of her project.
“Art nouveau,” she said. “A la Alphonse Mucha.”
The nineteenth century artist’s stylings would add the graceful elegance she sought for this room. Incorporating curvy, flowing shapes—and a few surprises—into her designs would marry the house to the outside gardens. Green, violet, red and brilliant turquoise would give it a breathy lushness.
“It may even look a little rock ’n’ roll by the time I’m finished with it.”
Glancing to the oversized sketchbook lying on the makeshift worktable formed of a plywood plank and two sawhorses, Jane decided she’d sketch out some preliminary designs after a meal. Three bags of groceries waited downstairs on the cupboard, waiting to be put away.
She intended to stay here while working on the project. If the house was vacant, she often set up camp. She never intruded too far into the owner’s property, occupying an extra room and using the kitchen and bathroom. She’d leave the house as it was when she’d arrived, if with a more splendid view of the world.
After a quick supper of bread and cheese, Jane explored farther and discovered a bedroom down the hall from the workroom. Jane smoothed the soft hemp sheets she’d brought along over the mattress, anticipating a blissful sleep tonight. A dusty mirror hung on the wall opposite the bathroom door. No other furniture. Whitewashed walls granted an old-fashioned country cottage coziness to the bare room. She liked the cool emptiness; it fit her soul perfectly.
Padding about in the loose patterned pajamas she’d changed into after a shower, she decided to stroll outside and cut some lilacs for the bedroom. A little color would bring life to the room.
Using a utility knife from her equipment, Jane severed an armload of lilac branches, ignoring the soft moan that crept into the atmosphere with each slice through tender stem. She whispered blessings, and then went back inside.
Cradling her booty in one arm, she carried the heavy blooms inside to arrange in a shallow plastic tub she used for rinsing glass pieces. There were no dishes in the cupboards downstairs, so she’d make do.
It was still early, around six, so Jane finger-combed through her semi-dry hair and decided to wander about the house, take in the rest of the rooms.
The windows she’d spied upon arrival faced a hearth room clumped with massive pieces of furniture covered in stiff white canvas. That room, the workroom, a recording studio, and the one bedroom and bath made up the second floor. The first floor offered the same layout, yet was completely bare of furniture. There was also a basement, but there was no reason to check it out; it was likely empty as well.
The closest neighbors Jane could spot out the front windows lived over a mile away, beyond thick tracts of spindly birch and lush Northern pine and oak trees. This plot of land was truly a sanctuary. It wouldn’t surprise her to see a grazing deer or two. With a smirk she decided the band could crank up their instruments to the highest volume and no one would hear.
Just across the hallway from the bedroom she had chosen, a recording studio was the only completely outfitted room in the house. Of course, a musician would concern himself with the tools of his trade.
Cautiously entering the studio, hands at her hips, she perused the equipment. None of it dusty. Must have recently been installed, or perhaps Mr. Olson sent a maid to freshen things up once in a while?
“It’s a surprise that no one has tried to break in and steal this stuff.” There was no security system, merely deadbolt locks on the outer doors.
The stacked black electronic equipment threatened Jane in an odd manner. She didn’t like noise or the wildness of the world. Sure, she was an artist, but she preferred peace to an audience.
Sweeping her fingers over the mysterious sliding controls, she wondered at the use of each of them. There were dozens of small black plastic sliders. Each one must control a different part of the music, be it bass or treble or strings or whatever else it was musicians sang, played or yowled.
Smirking at the thought of a yowling musician, Jane snapped her finger over a black button.
The room yelled in protest. Rock music blasted at a decibel level to break glass.
Fingers shaking and her blood soaring to a buzz, Jane scrambled for the button she had just snapped. With another flick, silence befell the room.
“Bad Jane,” she murmured, and then staggered out into the hallway.
Clutching her arms about her waist, she glared back at the evil room. The hairs on her arms stood upright. Her heartbeat threatened to leap right out of her throat.
That would teach her to play with other people’s stuff.
“Guess I’ll stay in my room and walk a wide arc around this one.”
Another noise sounded suddenly, from somewhere at the end of the hallway. Footsteps tromping up a staircase. Someone was in the house?
“Who the hell—!”
The growl in that voice clued Jane she didn’t want to stick around to wait for the bite.
Darting to the nearest retreat, she entered the bedroom. Slamming the door shut and locking it with the bolt and chain, she rushed across the room and scrambled for the utility knife she’d left beside the tub of lilacs.
A man’s voice echoed from outside, growing stronger as he neared the bedroom door. “This is my pl
ace! You’re trespassing! Open up!”
A firm kick on the opposite side set the door to shuddering.
Jane clutched the knife in her fist and crept toward the door. The thin bolt wouldn’t keep the door closed forever. A scan of the room found nothing else that would serve as a good weapon, and the bed was too far to expend energy trying to push before the door.
She’d not intended to disturb anyone’s privacy. This place was supposed to be unoccupied. Mr. Olson should be out touring right now—he’d no plans to arrive until winter.
Which meant whoever stood outside the door was not welcome.
Chapter 4
W ho the hell was in the house? He’d heard banging earlier, yet had dozed back to sleep. It hadn’t been a peaceful rest, and the tunes had blasted any hope of shut-eye. Some drugged-up kid had likely broken in with intentions to trash the place. Well, he’d put a scare in the fool.
“Open up, you lousy piece,” Michael snarled at the closed door. “This is private property.”
“I was hired to work here!”
Michael stopped his foot from connecting with the door. A woman’s voice?
“Who are you?” came from behind the door. “I was told this place was unoccupied. I’ve got a knife!”
He chuckled and pushed the hair back from his face. So the greater forces didn’t want him to make the leap to seclusion quite so quickly?
“Open up and we’ll talk,” he said, feeling his anger recede.
Drawing in a breath that sifted down to his gut quieted the turmoil within. And then he stretched his senses through the closed door to tap into the woman’s heartbeats. He needed to feel her, to read her strength. To know who he was dealing with. Druggie or just an innocent woman?
“Not until you tell me who you are. Oh, what am I saying? I’m calling the police.”
“Good luck with that,” Michael called. “There are no phones hooked up in the place yet.”
“I—I’ve got a cell.”
Didn’t sound too sure of that statement. Michael listened for the tiny beeps of a phone number being dialed. Nothing.